Before
by zandra-x
Summary: Giles just before Sunnydale.


Before

The funeral was small. People from the village came; a cousin or two whom he managed to notify in time, several old friends of her husband's. Everything was as minimal as his mother would have wanted. He sensed a regret among the mourners that there'd be no church service, but his mother had left explicit instructions on that score. Even in his grief and confusion, Giles admired her organizational skills as he went through her desk and found all the legal and personal papers neatly docketed. Everything he would need to wind up her life's obligations and final disposal was there. Yet, in a letter she included with the copy of her Will she, typically, allowed him to use his own judgment: "I would prefer no memorial gathering, but if it would be a comfort to you and my friends to have one, please do as you wish."

_The funeral was small, as I expected. Mother wasn't a social woman. Even in this village, she kept to herself. And if an older woman doesn't frequent the church and all its doings, well, the opportunity for interaction with her peers would be limited. Perhaps she should have started an atheists' social group, but, I think, even stronger than her distaste for religion was her indifference to humanity in clumps. She had a few close friends, her books and her garden; I think it more than sufficed for her. _

_And of course, she had me. The boy who'd come to his senses. I wonder if she and a friend or two sat over tea or, knowing Mother, a decent burgundy in the evening and discussed wayward children. _

Somehow he couldn't bring himself not to have a public marking of her passing. Simply bundling up her ashes into an urn, having the urn put up in some 'memorial garden', and stalking off back to the city seemed too bleak. So, in a somberly but neutrally decorated room in the funeral home in the larger town nearby, some old colleagues and friends had gathered. Several spoke. Giles had read somewhere that most of the testimonials at funerals were about the speaker and not the deceased. 'I knew the dear departed and this is impact he/she had on my life' sort of thing, and now he found this to be true. Giles' own short eulogy was respectful but not deeply personal.

Everyone said what they were expected to say to him at the later gathering in his mother's house: how sad it was; how tragic the circumstances were; how she didn't suffer; how she'd lived a good life. It was all true, and it touched him to see how much people he knew only slightly offered their sincere sympathy. It also made him want to scream and drive them out of the house.

_It all happened so quickly. A telephone rings, and your life changes. _

_Rather a cosmic joke, if you think about it in the right light. There I sit at my desk, plump with self-satisfaction after a meeting with Travers. I've been given the news I'm on the short list for a field assignment. Likely to happen soon. As I savor a cup of tea, planning the dispersal and storing of worldly goods and the round of leave- takings I'll have to make, Fate steps in, saying with a rude nudge, "Here, chum, here's one I've taken care for you." _

_The phone rings. One finds oneself saying, in quite an idiotic manner, "What? What?" And now, before the breaking up of my household, I'll be disposing of my mother's. _

_And then, in the midst of the inevitable rituals of death and burial, the thought comes, "My god, I'll have to make a speech. A eulogy." Mother wouldn't expect anything; she was of the firm opinion that she'd expect nothing after death. Still, her live friends would be waiting for the only child to say...something. I did my best, something dignified and appreciative. Should she be wrong and she did linger for a while, I think she'd like it. I kept my composure. She wouldn't have liked tears._

_Mother used to have a custom of asking me, when I was a small child, to recite three good things that happened during the day before I went to sleep. I must have been a rather worried little thing. It's an odd memory to dredge up on the day of your mother's funeral when one would be hard pressed to find one good thing about that day._

The morning after his mother's funeral, Giles woke in the guest room he used when he visited his mother. He felt a moment of confusion about his surroundings, and then he remembered why he was there and the things he had to do that day. There was the solicitor to see. Giles wanted sell this house he'd inherited as quickly as possible. His mother's personal possessions would have to be gone over; he decided to do a sorting with the idea of saving some things to be stored and looked at more closely, later. And he'd have to call back to the Council sometime during the day.

_I must get in touch with Quentin Travers sometime today. God knows, the Council is much like every other organization for the machinations and office politics. I wish I could believe that deliberate choices are made for suitability and compatibility in the field assignments, but looking at some of them, I can't help but think that the appointment committee sends someone out into the corridor to look in the first office with an open door and say, "Yes, that'll be the chap." I have to keep my memory alive in their hearts and minds._

The day went as Giles had expected. The visit at the solicitor's office revealed no surprises. He'd already seen copies of all the papers the man had. There were certain bequests his mother had asked Giles to handle; the rest of her property was his, to do with as he wished.

_The solicitor was just the man I would envision Mother choosing. He had all the relevant documents at his fingertips. The minimum-of-fuss approach for which Mother always looked. I felt let down somewhat when the business was concluded, and I was at sea as to why. Having a pint and Ploughman's at the local, I realized it was because I was half hoping she'd left a letter for me. Some encouraging words to help me on my journey. Our dialogue, such as it was, was finished. The tragedy of death is that opportunity is lost. And that each person must learn that for themselves. Now, is that a trite thought or a universal truth? _

One of his mother's circle, Angela, a woman Giles had known from his visits to his mother, came to help him with the sorting and packing. She arrived precisely at the time they'd arranged. He was grateful she didn't seem to need any easing into the task with small talk and reiterated condolences. Only a moment or two after she crossed over the threshold she said, "Well, let's get to it, shall we? The packing boxes are in the bedroom? I know the way."

They worked efficiently, with only a few words exchanged. After a while Giles said, "You know, if there's anything you'd like of Mother's, I'm sure she'd want you to have it."

She ran her eyes over the collection of twin sets and wool skirts strewn over the bed and in the open drawers. "Oh God, no. Your mother hated to shop for clothes. She kept buying the same thing over and over. I was a teacher for years and had outfits like these; I used to ask her why anyone would chose to dress like a Barbara Pym spinster, if it wasn't necessary for work. When I retired, I bought a collection of track suits and trainers," she gestured at what she was wearing. "Happiest day of my life." Angela folded one of the sweaters and thrust it forcefully into a box. "I'm going to miss her. She liked me because my bridge game was even more cut-throat than hers."

Giles found himself asking, "Did she ever talk about me?"

"Not too often. Of course, I don't have children of my own, so there was no need for that inevitable comparison conversation. She did tell me that you were a scholar. At times we would do the crossword together, and if we'd get stuck, Helen would say, 'Rupert would know, if he were here'. She talked of your father more often and some of their travels."

"Yes, they visited some exotic places together," he said.

Angela looked at him speculatively. "She never said why they did, though. Very hush-hush, was it? She gave me the impression she didn't care much for his work. I thought at first it must have been archeology, but Helen was rather dismissive of the whole thing."

Giles sidestepped that with, "I'm not quite sure what it was, myself. I was still in university when he died. We never had an adult conversation."

"Yes, Helen said he died just before she came here. She said she'd be happy not to see any of those work people again. Though, I must say, she dearly missed your father. I used to want her to get out a bit, you know, meet some nice men. But she'd say, 'I was happy as I was; I'm content as I am'." Angela's hands continued to work while she talked, making neat bundles of Helen's now unneeded clothing and packing them away. When she spoke again, it was of Giles. "With your father dying so young, and now Helen, I hope you're taking care of your own heart. Of course, Helen always said your father had a great deal of stress in his life. Still, don't we all nowadays?"

Angela had finished emptying the bureau of clothing, and in the closet there were only the shoes left. "I don't see much point in sending these on," she said, pointing to the shoes, "do you? Much too sensible. Anybody who'd wear them wouldn't buy them second-hand, broken in to someone else's foot."

"No, I suppose not." Giles envisioned a waste container full of his mother's shoes. To turn off the picture in his mind, he grabbed at Angela's last comment, "Stress? Yes, I suppose my father's career was very stressful for both of them."

Angela, filling a large plastic bag with the shoes, answered in a distracted tone, "Well, yes, the moving about and such, always a lot of bother. And raising a teenager! She gave me the sense that you were a bit of a handful."

"Yes, there was a bad patch."

Angela finished bagging the shoes and then went and sat on the edge of the bed, sighing a little. "Thank God I always taught the younger ones. I heard an endless amount of stories from other teachers and parents about teenagers, though. Staying out to all hours and coming home the worse for wear. Rude language. Sullenness."

_Summoning up a demon and letting it rip a friend to pieces. Yes, the late teen years can be a trial on everyone._

She mistook Giles' expression and said quickly, "Not that your mother said anything like that to me. She just mentioned in passing that she and your father were at one time rather worried about you. But it all turned out all right, didn't it? You seemed to have grown out of it. I know Helen looked forward to your visits." She stood up and gave a brisk, straightening tug on her jacket. "I'm getting to the age where I get to do too many of these packing-ups."

"I'm extremely grateful for your help. Really. I don't know how I'd have gotten through without you. Can I offer you some tea?"

"No, dear, thank you." Angela started toward the door. "I'll just go home and put my feet up. I'm sure you're quite tired, too."

"Wait," Giles said, "I'd almost forgotten. Mother wanted you to have something of hers." He took a small velvet-covered box from inside his mother's jewelry box and handed it to her.

She snapped it open and said, "Oh, it's her little silver shamrock pin. She always wore it when we played cards. For luck. Oh, now I really must go before I cry. Thank you, Rupert." She seemed on the edge of saying something more, but instead just turned to go. Giles walked with her to the front gate. He noticed that the lovely Autumn day was clouding over and that there'd, no doubt, be rain soon.

Alone, back in the house, he sank into a chair before the fireplace.

_Mother's passing seems to have been a greater blow to me that than Father's. But of course, she dealt with these mundane artifacts of death after his funeral, not me. I went back to my studies, ever more determined to become a Watcher, a man of whom he would be proud. What can I offer to Mother's memory?_

_I never quite grasped how much she disliked the Watchers' Council and all its doings. She put up with them for father's sake, it seems. But never a word to me about not following in his footsteps. Was she resigned to men's foolishness, or in my case, did she not care that much? _

_On the whole, I'm finding death to be an exhausting experience._

Giles considered getting a meal together, but it seemed to require more energy than he had. Gradually, his breathing deepened, his chin lowered onto his chest, and he slept.

He woke a few hours later, cramped and cold. He leaned over to switch on the heating element in the fireplace and sat there watching the unit turn a dull orange and savoring its heat. His life in London and the Watchers' Council seemed far away; he felt locked in a reality where only this cottage and his mother's absence from it had any substance.

The air in the room was damp, he noticed; no doubt the rain had arrived, though he couldn't hear any splatter against the window. Just a few more minutes in front of the fireplace and then it's an omelet for dinner, he decided.

He'd just stood up when there were several sharp knocks on the front door. Giles went to open it and found there a slender, shortish, youngish man whose mop of black hair had gathered drops of water from the heavily-misted air. He had a valise, and, for a moment, Giles wondered if he were a salesman. Perhaps they still went door-to-door here in the country, though surely it was a bit late in the day for such intrusions.

"Are you Rupert, then?" The man had an Irish accent and a confident manner.

"Yes, I'm Rupert Giles."

"I'm your cousin Michael Keogh, come for the funeral."

Giles said, "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I..." His words trailed off, but he didn't move to let the man in.

"You phoned my Da's house. Jimmy Keogh. He and your mother were half-cousins. You and me are sort of second cousins, I guess. And, fella, I'm getting terrible wet standing here."

Giles moved aside with a quick step. "Of course, please come in. There's been so much going on, the name completely slipped my mind. I'm afraid you're too late for the funeral. Please, sit down." Indicating a chair near the fireplace, Giles felt suddenly that he'd run out of words and sat down rather heavily, himself.

"Ah, thanks very much. The first thing I'm to say is how sad my da is at Lena's passing. And how he'd have come himself, but he's old and he's afraid he'd die in England and he'd never live it down." Keogh shrugged. "Da's a bit of a comedian, but the sad news did twist the old man's heart. He just got out of hospital himself; that's why he didn't get your message right away." Keogh lifted his valise to his lap and opened it. "He sent along some pictures he thought you'd like to see."

Giles abruptly rose to his feet. "I was about to fix something to eat. I hope you'll join me and stay the night. I'm afraid you won't find another accommodation in the village."

_Really, not one more conversation about my mother just now. Hearing my father's name for her used again is so disorienting. No one else ever called her that. I can remember all his intonations of it. Mostly pleased, sometimes just bewildered-sounding because they were such different sorts of people._

Giles was half way to the kitchen when he stopped short. "Michael, I'm forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink?"

"It's Mick to friends and distant cousins. And why don't you just bring a couple of glasses." He reached again into the suitcase and put a bottle on the small table at his side. "Da sent this along, too. Like he says, it's all right to be sentimental, but a man should be practical, too."

Giles, glancing at the label, saw it was the 16-year-old Bushmills. "That's generous of him. And extremely thoughtful." He went to the cabinet that held his mother's best crystal and returned with two heavy tumblers. Mick poured a liberal amount in each.

_I'm watching him tilt the bottle over the glass, thinking how abstemious my life has been since...well...since Ethan. I believe I'm out of practice. On the other hand, my Watcher appointment is still hanging fire; I'm facing an evening of studying snaps of my mother as a hopeful girl. Oh, pour on, MacDuff_

Mick followed Giles into the kitchen. He chatted while Giles made some dinner. He kept on neutral subjects: his trip over, his roundabout way of getting to this small Cornish village, the times he visited London. He stayed away from any mention of Giles' mother or the funeral. They ate, sipping at the whiskey throughout the meal. Giles found himself laughing at some of his cousin's stories, warmed and relaxed by the liquor and the companionship. After dinner was over, Mick said, "Let me do the washing up. I had an older sister who'd give me a smack if I dawdled when it was my turn; it'll take me no time. She's a heavy-handed girl."

This time, Giles sat at the table while Mick worked, and, true to his word, they were soon back sitting in front of the glowing fireplace in the parlour. Giles reached for the Bushmills, gave each of their glasses a large dollop, and said, "I found some of your father's letters to my mother among her papers. That's why I called him. Really, my mother never mentioned him that I can recall. I only knew she had some relatives in Ireland, but I never knew she was close to them. Maybe you could take the letters, if you think he'd like them?" He made the last sentence a question.

"I'm sure he would. My da is in the way of being the opposite your ma; nothing he likes more than a chin wag about old times. I've heard the stories so many times, I feel like it was me standing right next to him when things happened."

"You must be close, to have made this journey for him."

"Well, he's the ol' lad, you know." He looked over at Giles and said, "Look, if you'd like me to just leave the stuff he sent, not look at it now, I mean, that's okay. We'll just exchange packets like we're spies or something and settle down to a good night of drinking."

"No, I'd like to see the photos. The whiskey has mellowed me nicely."

Mick began to pass Giles the old snapshots, black and white or with bleached-out colors, explaining who some of the people in them were. "Now, here's your grandfather with his brother, my grandfather, half-brothers, like. Their da, you know, married twice. The second one was English, and their son was raised over here. But he brought his daughter, that'd be your mother, over to visit." The figures in the photo stood casually lined up, their eyes squinting against the light of the sun. Giles judged from the age of his mother that it was taken sometime after the war.

_Well, there they all are. My unknown Irish family, or more like an Irish connection, the familial ties just about stretched to their limits. There's my grandfather, scarcely remembered, with the same half-smile mother wore when she about to say something tart and amusing. And I'm listening to a never-met demi-cousin tell me about them. Mother never did, but then, I can't say I ever asked, did I?_

"Wait!" Giles looked intently at the last photo Mick passed to him. "This is my father, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah, that was probably taken the summer they met, your parents. You know, he was over to doing some Watcher investigations or some such. Da says he was looking for Brachens. Don't know if he ever found any. But he found Lena."

Giles glass slipped in his hand and almost spilled. "You know about the Watchers, about demons?" he said, staring at Mick.

"Oh, Jaysus, sure we do. Da says his own father was, I'd guess you'd call it now, the 'go-to guy' on stories about demons and banshees and 'The Lianhan Shee'. Myself, I always remember him waiting for a dark, rainy night to tell all us kids about Irish vampires. So, that was how they met, your parents." Mick had slid rather low in his chair, and the whiskey was beginning to have an effect on him, making him want to illustrate this part of the story with hand gestures. He held up the forefingers of both hands and began moving them towards each other. "Your father, Harry (right forefinger) comes to Ireland to consult the 'The Great Keogh'; your mother, Lena (left forefinger) is visiting." The fingers came together. "It was love." He stared intently at his hands for a few seconds and then used them to hoist himself up straighter in the chair. "The thing of it was, according again to my da, that the family was gobsmacked that she'd fall for a Watcher. She'd have nothing to do with Grandda's stories. Just sniff and say it was 'stories for snappers'."

"Snappers?" Giles asked.

"You know, like, children." Mick leaned over to pick some photographs that had slipped to the floor. "But one look at your da, and she couldn't hear enough about ancient demons. Bedazzled she was. So my da says."

Giles filled both glasses again. "Well, luckily for all of us, she remained under his spell for the rest of his life. Always waited for her Watcher to come home. I remember she was always a little distracted while he was on a trip without her." Giles took a rather deep drink and seemed to be speaking to himself. "If I get to go, am I better off that there'll be no one worrying at home about me, or worse?"

"Now then, the whiskey is making you sad, isn't it? It has that effect on some. We could talk about football, instead, like. I have some decided opinions on that."

Giles shook his head and noticed the room continued to move after he stopped. "I'm fine with the family stories. You're very kind to share them. And your father is kind, too. I read some of his letters to my mother. You're a kind family."

_I had read some of them. Was that rude? Can you be rude to the dead? I also read the ones she kept from my father. I was 'like Niobe, all tears'. That's right, Rupert, literary allusions instead of owning up to genuine emotion. How very English of you._

The pair worked their way through the rest of the Bushmills. Then through a bottle Giles found in a cupboard, not of as good a quality, but they didn't notice the lack. They looked through everything Mick brought with him, and as the hour grew later, conversation drifted this way and that as the whiskey dissipated their ability to pay close attention to it. Mick began reminiscences of his own childhood, during which Giles would chime in with a 'really?' or a 'yes, I see'.

In the middle of one of Mick's stories, in the middle of one of Mick's sentences, Giles suddenly said, "I'm an orphan, you know." He waved his whiskey glass in emphasis.

"I know, fella, it's a terrible thing. But it comes to all of us, don't it?" Mick answered.

"Yes, it is the human condition," said Giles, articulating carefully. "But, would my father still be here if I hadn't played the fool, the murderous fool, in my youth? Stress. There was a lot of stress. One wonders." He stopped and started again. "One wonders if ...I wonder if mother ever had thoughts like that."

There was no answer to that speculation from Mick, whose eyes had closed. Giles reached over to shake his arm but miscalculated the distance and almost toppled out of his chair. Righting himself, he said, "I could use some sleep myself."

He leaned his weight on his left hand and pushed himself, only realizing he should have put down the glass in his right hand halfway through his attempt to stand. After he felt securely upright, he turned and put it on the table. He slipped his eyeglasses off, folded them and very carefully laid them crosswise on the tumbler. Pleased with this engineering feat, he turned to go upstairs. His journey up the hall stairs seemed endless to him, but eventually he reached the bedroom and fell face down on the mattress.

It was mid-morning before he awoke. It'd been years since he'd felt so wretched. He felt as though he hadn't bathed in weeks. He stumbled into the bathroom and cupped his hands under the sink tap to splash his face. He drank three glasses of water. He never regretted more than now that the cottage had no shower, only a bathtub. He thought, fleetingly, that to stand right now under a steaming hot stream of water for a very long time, he would gladly renounce the Watcher's Council and his entire future. His head ached, and he was aware of each tooth in his jaw.

He turned on the bath's taps, flinching at the clanging noise the old pipes made. While it filled, he used his toothbrush to try to scour the old sock taste from his mouth. Then he took three aspirin.

_Hangover, dead parent, perhaps condemned to a lifetime of shuffling papers. Look at that pathetic man in the mirror. Ah, Rupert, pull your socks up. Time to stop wallowing._

After his soak, Giles went downstairs. Mick, who looked rumpled but alert, was in the midst of frying up some breakfast. He looked around at Giles and said, "Tea, then?"

Giles nodded with a small motion. After finishing the first mug and starting on another, Giles found himself willing to share in breakfast with Mick.

"You were terrible ossified last night," Mick said in a conversational way.

"At least I made it to bed."

"I don't like to try those tricky maneuvers, myself. Better to stay put, I say. You could only make half-way, and stairs are fucking uncomfortable to wake up on."

Giles managed a small chuckle.

They'd almost finished the meal, eating slowly and only talking at irregular intervals, when Mick said, "Oh, there was a message for you. It was the phone that woke me. It was all I could do to make sense of what the man was saying. I just took down the number he gave me." Mick waved his fork in the general direction of the kitchen counter. where there was a slip of paper.

Giles went to look at the message and went to the other room to use the telephone. When he came back, he poured himself a fresh cup of tea, sat down and said, "I'm going to California."

"Brilliant! Fucking brilliant!"

_That's it, then? My big news, and I get to share it with someone who showed up on my doorstep last night? Still, I could be sitting in an empty house feeling even sorrier for myself. And I'll have the envy of the other researchers at the Council to warm me. Time to put away self-pity and assume massive anxiety about your coming job. Everything in its place, chum. _

"Yes, I'll have to wrap things up here and in London. They want me in place as soon as possible."

"It'll be good to have something to do, like, too. After this. Say, I was wondering if you could run me up to Truro so I can start back home."

"Yes, of course. No problem. It'll be good to get out of the house. And I have some things for you to take back." Giles left the room and came back carrying a wooden box. He put it down gently on a clear spot on the table. "Mother left instructions for me to send this to your father. It seems it's a wedding gift to her from your grandfather. It's a keepsake box, apparently he made it himself. He must have been a skilled craftsman. See this pattern of several different inlayed woods? Quite a handsome piece."

"Jaysus, it's a beauty."

"His letters to her are inside." Giles hesitated, "I don't know why she was so secretive with me about my Irish connections, and now I'll never know. It seems another great loss to me, now."

"Ah, well, people are God's mystery, aren't they?"

"Yes, no doubt."

Mick lifted the box up and said, "There'll be room for this in the valise with the bottle gone. Let me go wash up and change and we can be off for the station."

Giles said, "That sounds fine. And when you see your father...well, please convey my thanks to him, for everything. Most of all, being Mother's friend."

"Done," Mick said as he was leaving the room. "Jaysus, you English are so fecking sentimental."

Giles tided up and then sat at the kitchen table making a list of things he would have to do before leaving for California.

_California and a Slayer to guide, both scary thoughts. How thoughtful of the Council to arrange a Hellmouth assignment for an untested Watcher, and the reports on this Slayer all emphasize a certain lack of discipline on her part. Am I seen as so rigid that my presence will counteract her tendency to anarchy? Or was my name picked out of a hat? Well, ours not to reason why, ours but to do and..._

Giles heard Mick in the other room and went to see if he were ready to depart. They left soon afterward, and Giles' Mini sped toward the town of Truro and the train station. Mick insisted that Giles not wait with him, and they shook hands in goodbye.

Giles looked back once and waved, but his mind was already on his own departure and the things he needed to do before it. He was sure there would be paperwork for the Council; there always was. Most every one of the staff was an archivist at heart; documentation filled them with delight.

_Passport is in order; I'm sure the green card path will be made smooth by the Council's contacts; there'll be payroll issues to tend to. What else? What else? Ah, yes. One important issue I've never faced before. _

_Who does a man without a family put in the blank on the emergency contact card? Who do I put, now?_

The End


End file.
